The Most Faithful Servant of All
by Myles.Long
Summary: Faced with the sudden fear that his greatest ally may be a coward, Voldemort takes the opportunity to search his servant's memories. Mild implied Yaoi, rated M for strong language and some disturbing and violent scenes later.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. But in my defence, I don't think anyone else around here does either, so…

**Summary:** Faced with the sudden fear that his greatest ally may be a coward, Voldemort takes the opportunity to search his servant's memories.

**A/N:** Ok, this idea's been brewing for months in my head :P Basically, the idea evolved from a plausible explanation as to why Barty pleaded guilty in his trial (you'll see) into just a general view of how he became the rather awesome Death Eater he is.

**Prologue**

**The Gaunt House, 24****th**** August 1994**

The House of Gaunt had not aged well since its owners had left it fifty-two years ago.

Of course with the house's history, nobody in the village had wanted anything to do with the hovel where the Gaunt boy had been brought up. In a similar vein, in the state the hovel was in, no estate agents in their right minds could have expected to make a profit by doing the place up and selling it. Years ago, a few members of the East Sussex County Council made a motion to destroy the hovel so that the land underneath could be used as farmland. After the eighth month of heavy deconstruction work failed to cause so much as a dent to the house, however, the council gave up. After all, they reasoned, Little Hangleton had managed to put up with the hovel for decades while the Gaunts were still alive. They would just have to get used to it.

Interestingly, none of the villagers or deconstruction workers had ever been led by their curiosities to attempt to get past the resolutely locked door. This was just as well, since nothing of human shape could ever have passed the threshold of the house and come out in the same shape. Or breathing.

The Ministry of Magic had been aware of the powerful curses set around the Gaunt shack for some time, but had thought nothing of them further than the pride of the Gaunts trying to keep their treasures safe. Furthermore, the Ministry never had any reason to think the hovel could possibly be worth the hassle of countering said curses.

Which was exactly how the Dark Lord had hoped they would think.

Admittedly, some minor witches and wizards, most of them crooks, had come across the hovel at some points in time and tried to pass the boundaries, but none had been successful. The closest anyone had got, as well as the most recent, had been within the past month. Mundungus Fletcher, who assumed that the Gaunts would have left some gold or magical artifacts behind, had come to the hovel three weeks ago and spent the best part of a week researching each of the curses and carefully working to undo them. However, just as he had got into the swing of things, he had been distracted by the Quidditch World Cup, and had promptly forgotten all about the Gaunt house. This was the best outcome for all concerned; given Fletcher's connections with Dumbledore, his death would have been particularly difficult to cover up.

No, the Gaunt hovel was perfectly safe from any human contact. Only the insects and the rodents entered the house, and most of them had given up on the place too; though cobwebs covered almost every available corner, you would be hard-pressed to find a spider anywhere in the house.

And if you _did_ find an animal in the derelict house, you could be sure that they weren't in the room that used to be Marvolo Gaunt's bedroom. Long since, the animals had agreed that that room, and anything in it, was Danger. Strange things happened to those who braved their way into the room, stranger even than what would happen to humans which passed the door. The mouse's skull with the three eye sockets still lay just short of the door as a reminder to any creature who ever found themselves curious. The few animals who were regular occupants to the house were aware that, in the last couple of days, that there had been one creature that had taken its hold in the room now. Far from seeing this as a sign that the danger had passed, however, they saw anything that could survive in the room as an even greater danger and stayed even further away from the room. It's amazing how intuitive animals can be, sometimes.

Today, however, an exception seemed to be occurring. A small, terrified, grey-haired rat was making its way under the door and into the room. The rat's purpose was a mystery to all the other animals. Courage could not possibly have been the issue; on its way into the house, many of the animals had watched as the rat scampered in as if its tail was on fire, looking behind it sometimes with a wild look in its eyes and jumping abnormally high at the slightest noise. Even now as it made its way into the room it had slowed to a snail's pace, obviously trying its very, very best not to draw attention to itself, but still it continued forward and forward until it was out of sight and earshot of any of the creatures outside, and –

'You're early, Wormtail,' the cold voice noted. The rat let a terrified squeak, and transformed instantly into the cowering form of Peter Pettigrew.

'M-my Lord!' he stammered. 'My apologies - I thought you were resting...'

'Then you should have woken me,' Voldemort replied, coolly. 'Yes, I rest to bide my time, but I do _not _want that time wasted. And you know that time where we are not progressing with the plan is just that - wasted. I trust your mission was successful?'

Wormtail, who had been listening fearfully to his master, jumped at the chance to give a positive answer. 'Yes, master!' he said, hastily, pulling out the vial of silver memories he had just acquired and dropping them into the bowl.

'Then I suppose you can be forgiven for your avoidance...' Voldemort's voice took an even colder turn, 'However... Let us hope that your swift return has not lessened the quality of your work...'

Wormtail reverted to his fearful stance. 'No, master,' he agreed miserably.

'You know how important this is to our success.'

Wormtail remained silent, fingering the stump on his hand where a finger had once been. Ever since he had been told his hand would soon be removed, Voldemort had been able to take this action as the simplest indication that his servant was uncertain of anything. He sighed impatiently.

'We need these memories to know we can _trust_ Crouch before we utilise him.'

'Y-yes sir, of course, but - surely we already know? Bertha Jones's evidence was most revealing, and he _did_ summon the mark... You have never felt the need to probe through _my_ memories to ascertain my devotion to you...'

'That is because you have no measurable skill in Occlumency, Wormtail. It is only too easy to read exactly what you are thinking.' Wormtail's face fell with a mixture of shame and fear.

'Besides,' Voldemort continued, 'your satisfaction with the feeble evidence we have is pitiful. Yes, I _was_ ready to trust Crouch, but more recently much evidence has come to light that has swayed my judgement... Any cowardly former Death Eater could have summoned the mark, and we know of plenty of those already. Much more notably, all the evidence implies that Crouch is just another one of these cowards. You know he alone of the Longbottoms' torturers pleaded innocent at his trial? Besides that, if he _is_ my loyal supporter, why does his father keep him in this state so apparently close to freedom? Much as I wish I could rely on my supporters' loyalty, you know _that_ has let me down before...'

'I – I have apologised a thousand times over, my master-'

'You need not take offence; you are not the lone culprit... Wormtail, I _do_ wish your attention would cease wavering to your hand.'

Wormtail's left hand, which had been nervously rubbing against his right throughout his master's tirade, suddenly stopped moving. Wormtail was now staring at his hands as though terrified of them.

'My Lord...' he began to speak, before apparently losing his voice.

'You know you have nothing to fear,' Voldemort persisted, though doing nothing to change his most intimidating harsh tones. 'As long as you do everything I require of you, as I am _assured_ you will, you will not be without a limb for very long.'

'But...' again Wormtail's voice faltered, but Voldemort glimpsed into the servant's mind and saw a glimpse of where his fear arose. He gave a loud and lengthy exhalation, which for Voldemort's feeble form passed for laughter.

'You fear the pain?' His voice sounded almost gleeful. 'Surely I have hardened your mind from _pain_ more than enough?'

Wormtail could only whimper to this. Having finished explaining the plan and taunting his servant, Voldemort tired of Wormtail's presence and went to view the freshly collected memories. 'Be ready to feed me as soon as I have finished, Wormtail,' he instructed.

Wormtail nodded wordlessly, moved Voldemort's chair closer to the Pensieve clumsily, and ran towards the kitchens as if being chased. His master, grimacing with effort, pulled himself towards the black Pensieve and delved his head in to see the memories of Barty Crouch Junior...

**A/N:** Anyone intrigued? :P By all means read on…


	2. 1 A Normal Work Day

**A/N:** First chapter. This wasn't originally in my plan for the fanfic and I guess in a way it works as much as a prologue as a chapter, since it's more centred around Barty Senior, but it is important to the story in general. Don't worry, we'll get some chibi Junior pretty soon :P

**Chapter 1**

**A Normal Work Day**

**Ministry of Magic Courtroom 10, 28****th**** August 1973**

'Order.'

Barty Crouch Senior's abrupt voice rang sharply across the dark, domed Courtroom. The few members of the Wizengamot who had been talking in lowered voices fell quiet and looked back up with mixed expressions of respect and fear.

'I thank you all for coming,' he said stiffly. 'Though I am sure you are all as eager as I am to have this trial over, I hope you will all be patient as I give a few announcements before we start.'

For the eighth time since he had sat down, he glanced quickly and discomforted towards the spectator stands to his right. When Godfrey Slinkhard, the Minister for Magic, noticed his stare and nodded to him, he turned his gaze hastily back to the Wizengamot members once again, and coughed.

'Firstly, I wish to show my appreciation to all of you for your continued work fighting against our most recent threat to the Wizarding Way of life. The wizard who calls himself the Dark Lord Voldemort has been penned by many newspapers to be the new Grindelwald.' He said this in a tone of voice that made no attempt to disguise its contempt for said newspapers. 'I cannot believe anyone who was alive during the war on Grindelwald can agree with this, and certainly not those among us who fought against him… However, I cannot deny that the wizard and his so-called "Death Eaters" are proving themselves to be resourceful, cunning and exceptionally evasive.' He bowed his head slightly in a half-nod. 'This is why I am thankful that, between the Departments of Law Enforcement that we all reside over, we surely have the determination and strength to overcome this threat and become stronger than ever.' There was the kind of mild scattering of applause one would get from a small audience who recognised a cliché when they saw it. Nonetheless, Crouch appreciated the ovation, nodded and went on.

'Secondly,' he continued, 'if you would all look towards the Council of Warlocks to my right-' he seemed almost unaware of how pompous this alternate name for "spectator stand" really sounded – 'Then you will notice that we have two fresh visitors among our more regular auditors.' Several curious turning faces told Crouch that this had indeed been the cause of the earlier gossip. Though he would usually be annoyed by such a display of how controllable and juvenile his own fellow wizards could be sometimes, today Crouch seemed to revel in it, or at least accept the reduced complication that it allowed.

'The first of these, who you will see to the left of our esteemed Professor Dumbledore, is the reason we are here today, and is here by my personal invitation.' Crouch said the word "personal" the way most people said the word "royal." 'He is, of course, Alastor Moody, who captured the criminal we are interrogating today and is, I am proud to say, one of the most powerful aurors under my command.' Some scattered, polite clapping broke out for the rugged auror, who winked to the crowd in his seat by Dumbledore, but the Wizengamot was still looking behind him to the back of the stand.

Crouch cleared his throat and twisted his face into a smile. Though it was probably meant to be welcoming, the grin seemed ill-fitting on his face, like a stranger on his skin which had never been there in his life. 'The second,' he recited through the strained smile, 'Is here by his own invitation, and you should see him at the back of the stand. He is here because he wants to see how we work down here, and I'm sure you'll understand if I ask that we all do our best to ensure that's what he sees.' A well-rehearsed twinkle flashed in Crouch's eyes that might easily have been mistaken for authentic serenity. 'There is, after all, little more important to me than his happiness.' A few smiles from that, with Minister Slinkhard in particular gleaming at him.

Having finished the highly-rehearsed opening, Crouch seemed to relax significantly in his chair, the uncomfortable smile being replaced by a satisfied but mindful frown. 'Greetings aside,' he said, 'we are of course here to cast our judgement on one Anthony Mulciber, known affiliate with Death Eaters, on trial today for insurmountable evidence of his use of the Imperius curse on a muggle family of six to torture and kill them.' Crouch's face wrinkled up as he said this; the mere recounting of the crime seemed enough to disgust him. 'Let him in,' he grimaced.

At Crouch's command, the doors to the courtroom were opened and the man called Anthony Mulciber entered the room, covered in chains, with two dementors following warily at either flank. Under a shock of long, wild hair, the skin around his eyes appeared to have been drained entirely of colour, and stretched so that huge bags flooded his face from under those inert grey eyes. Though facial hair hung from his chin, it could hardly be called a beard, as to name it would imply that it had been grown intentionally; the rough tangles of hair were so wildly unkempt and loose that it appeared to be willing itself to drop off his chin. He was still wearing the robes he had been arrested in two weeks ago, as if unaware of the huge holes and bloody patches that gaped across them, or indeed of the clean robes that Azkaban prisoners were presented when they arrived. The robes hung so loosely over his slim shoulders that they seemed to remain on his body through sheer willpower; there was a sense that the man had lost a huge amount of weight in a short period of time.

In short, Mulciber appeared to be the picture of a man who had spent the previous week without sleeping, eating, shaving, or doing anything but lying in wait for the trial.

The only sign that the man was not devoid of all feeling was a grin on his face so inappropriately smug that it sent a visible shudder down Crouch's spine.

'Anthony Mulciber,' Crouch pronounced, officiously, 'You are here today in front of the Council of Law on trial for the death of six muggles by means of the illegal Imperius Curse. We have heard all evidence against you. You -'

'Bullshit.'

The word cut through the hushed courtroom like a knife cleaving through skin. It was said so clearly, so boldly across Crouch, that one might not have believed it came from such a deathly frail figure had it not been hardened by the same arrogant tones that were clearly etched into his smirking face.

Crouch blinked at the interruption before continuing, apparently trying to pretend it didn't happen. 'You stand accused of apparating into known Muggle area Greater Donnelton, breaching the International Statute of Secrecy. The statute was further breached by an estimated thirteen uses of the Obliviate Memory Charm to the surrounding muggles. Further to this…'

'Wasn't me, prick.'

This time Crouch visibly winced. 'You would be thanked not to interrupt, mister Mulciber,' he said, curtly, before again continuing, '_Further_ to this, you are accused of again advancing your crimes by the use of the Imperius curse on one Jeremy Perrin, in doing so leading to the murders of his wife Isabelle, their children Jennifer, Alexander and Charles, their neighbour Reginald White and ultimately the suicide of Jeremy Perrin. You have pleaded innocent, but have been unable to produce any evidence in favour of your testimony. If you have anything to add to your testimony, you may speak now.'

Mulciber shifted himself in his seat so that his limp weight slouched backwards, giving him an even more smug posture than he already had. 'Don't really see that I need a testimony. I've got a lawyer, I know I'm safe. You can't fockin' prove it was me, can ya?'

Crouch frowned impatiently. 'Mister Mulciber. You were caught in Greater Donnelton itself after the deaths of the muggles in question took place, with traces of one of the children's blood on your robes. You-'

'Well, I was set up, wasn't I? Some dickhead-'

'You will _not_ interrupt, please, mister Mulciber,' Crouch snapped, rather sharper than he had intended, still trying to appear in control and hiding self-conscious glances in the direction of the Warlock stands, where Dumbledore and Moody had started talking quietly to each other. Crouch's impatience seemed only to make Mulciber's grin greater. 'As I was _saying_, you were the only person able to use magic seen within two miles of the town, and the only person capable of using dark magic of such magnitude for far more miles. The Trace we had placed on the muggle town confirmed that nobody had disapparated or used any other form of magical transport anywhere near the site of the murders between the time of the crime itself and the time of your capture. If you have any explanation as to how you had been "set up" so effectively, I'm sure the court and I would be happy to hear it.' Even as he spoke the words Crouch had a look on his face that clearly said he would be unlikely to be happy to hear anything Mulciber said.

Mulciber took this as his cue to lean even further back into his slouch. 'So I walked through some blood. There was a lot of it about. And I dunno, maybe he got away by muggle transport? Broomstick, even? There's got to be some fockin' thing you're not wasting our magic trying to protect _muggles_ from-'

'You are hardly in position to criticise our political standing with muggles, Mulciber, given that it is crimes like that which you are on trial for that the Trace is placed on such muggle areas to prevent,' he interrupted, straining to keep the anger out of his voice. 'Ladies and gentlemen-'

'Hey, you just interrupted me!' Mulciber seemed ecstatic at the effect he was having on Crouch. 'You said no interrupting! What sort of fucking justice system do you call yourselves if you-'

Crouch's voice finally did as it had been struggling not to do for some time, and rose to a shout. '_I_ AM NOT THE ONE ON _TRIAL_ HERE, MISTER MULCIBER! AND I WILL _THANK_ YOU NOT TO USE SUCH LANGUAGE HERE IN FRONT OF THIS COURT!'

You could tell from the glint in Mulciber's eyes that Crouch's glance into the stands had not gone unnoticed by him this time. Slowly, with the eyes of the silent court on him, he turned to Crouch's right and let his smug face fall into mock remorse. 'Oh, I am _sorry_. I didn't realise there were such _delicate_ ears listening. Are you all right, _sir_?'

'That's enough,' barked Crouch. Mulciber took little notice.

'I hope you're enjoying the show, _friend_. Hope you're taking great notice on how this guy's _mess_ing up his job right here-'

'I said that's _enough_!' Crouch screamed, red in the face. 'Colleagues, I don't think we need to hear any more. This man is clearly guilty, shows contempt for his peers and muggles alike, and shows no remorse for his actions-'

For the first time, Mulciber's smile faltered slightly. 'Wait, you're still gonna lock me up?'

Crouch's face stiffened slightly, as if trying to stop itself breaking into a smirk to rival the one Mulciber had supported until now. 'I feel you may have misunderstood what happens in a _trial_, Mulciber.'

'But…' his smile completely fell apart now. 'But I'm innocent! I was told you weren't allowed to lock someone innocent up! You can't let me back in there with those things, I told you, I didn't focking-'

'Save your breath for the dementors, Mr. Mulciber. I don't know which lawyers you've been talking to, but your guilt in this case is anything but debatable at this stage. If I could implore the court to draw this trial to a close; all in favour of giving this man a life sentence in Azkaban with no visitation rights?'

The court, as one, raised their hands. Mulciber was now looking around him in something of a panic.

'Very well then. Case dismissed.' Crouch stood up from his seat. The rest of the courtroom followed suit.

Nearly nobody still watched Mulciber as he was led out of the room by the four dementors. Most of the court was oblivious to his struggles as they got weaker by the second as the dementors surrounding him got closer and closer. So it came as a complete surprise to the room when the man used his last ounce of strength to wrench his wand out from beneath his robes, point it at Crouch and yell 'Crucio!' before passing out.

A few shrieks were emitted. Aurors rushed forwards from their seats. Crouch's personal assistant dived in front of him. His screams echoed through the hall.

'Thank you, Weatherby,' Crouch said distractedly, anger blazing in his eyes. 'Aurors, I believe Mulciber will need to be escorted with rather more protection back to Azkaban. Can someone please make sure I talk to the _incompetent_ who was meant to search him?'

Only one pair of eyes apart from the assistant's had been watching Mulciber the entire time as well. At the back of the Council of Warlocks, well behind Minister Slinkhard, Barty Crouch Junior remained looking at him, white at a sheet, clutching the arm-rests of his seat so hard they had gone purple.

**A/N:** If there's anyone who took the scapegoat and believed that Slinkhard was the reason Crouch was nervous I will feel pretty chuffed about my abilities as a writer :P Please review and wait patiently for chapter 2…


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